Reign

Scene 7

"Looking back," said Dennis Hamilton to Ann Deems as they sat at the same table as they had on their first date, "I think I owe it all to you."

"Owe what?" she asked. She was wearing a teal sweater dress with a long, rust-colored wool challis scarf. The diamond studs in her ears sparkled in the candlelight. Her face, Dennis thought, looked untouched by the years, as smooth as a child's in the gentle, golden glow.

"I owe you my career," he answered, smiling at her quizzical look. "Don't you remember the first time we ate here? I was bitching about how I didn't get any respect, how everyone was hoping to see me wind up flat on my face, and you told me not to try and feel like the Emperor, but to be the Emperor. And after I dropped you off I went back to my room and I thought damn it, she's right. I didn't have to feel like royalty as long as I could act like it. And I knew I could do that, and from that day on, at the rehearsals, I did."

Now Ann was smiling too. "I do remember."

Dennis looked down into his wine glass. "God, I was scared, though. But I figured I had nothing to lose."

"And that was when you told the stage manager to get you coffee."

A look of astonishment came over his face. "I told you about Pritchard?"

"You told me everything then. And I remember I was so proud of you. It's silly now, but it was a turning point for you in that show."

Dennis shook his head, remembering how Caton Tully, the director, expected Ralph Pritchard to get coffee from the machine in the lobby for him and several of the more highly paid actors at every break. Dennis had not been among the select few. The morning of the day after he and Ann had their first dinner together, Dennis had made his move.

~* ~

When Pritchard started back to the lobby to get Tully's coffee, Dennis called after him, "I'll have some too, Ralph. Black," and turned away before Pritchard could respond. When Pritchard returned, he handed the cardboard cups around, then finally gave the last one to Dennis. Dennis opened it and saw the light brown of a double cream. Although he didn't taste it, he felt certain that Pritchard had dumped a double sugar into it as well.

"Ralph," he said in a flat, cold tone. "I asked for black."

"Oh yeah?" Ralph shrugged. "You want something done right, do it yourself."

"You scheiskopf! " And suddenly Dennis Hamilton was gone, and the Emperor stood there in his place, an Emperor who had been pushed past all endurance and would brook no more. "It was your mistake." Dennis thrust the cup into the man's chest, so that the light, sticky brew splashed Pritchard's shirt, and husked out one word – "Black." The theatre grew deadly quiet, and no one moved for a long time.

~* ~

"I never," Dennis said to Ann, "never would have done that if you hadn't suggested it. And even then it was hard. I mean, Jesus, what a smartass punk, they must have thought."

"But he brought you a black coffee, didn't he?"

"Yes he did. I guess it helped that he was such a screwup to begin with. I don't know, maybe he thought I could actually get him replaced or something. After all, I was the star, whether I realized it or not."

"And you finally began to act like it."

"That's right. And I've been acting that way ever since. So following your advice not only made my reputation," said Dennis with a wry smile, "it ruined it as well. From enfant terrible to aging tyrant."

"Oh, the gratitude you must feel toward me. But you're not aging, you're forty-three, the same as…” She hesitated.

"The same as you. I know. No secrets here. But the years have been far kinder to you, Ann, than to me."

"How can you say that? You look wonderful."

"There are silver threads among the red, and, though you can't see it, I'm beginning to cultivate a paunch. The weight's remained the same, it's just been… redistributed." They laughed together, stopping only when the waiter refilled their wine glasses.

"So," Dennis said, "did you ask your daughter whether she'd be interested in working for us too?"

"No," Ann replied, and Dennis thought he saw a cloud pass over her face. "She wasn't home when I got there. Probably out with friends. I'll talk with her…” She paused, as if contemplating what the evening would hold. “… tonight, when I get home."

Dennis nodded. The mention of Ann's daughter had unexpectedly introduced the spectre of all the years that had passed since the nights they had last sat here, at first holding hands, later kissing with light, gentle kisses when the waiters' and other diners' attentions were elsewhere.

They did not hold hands now, though Dennis wanted to. From the moment he had seen Aim that day, he knew that his feelings for her had never left, that although at times he had denied her existence, he knew now that he had done so to spare himself the pain of life without her. For only by not thinking about her, by banishing her from his mind, could he live with the knowledge that he loved her, and always would.

He looked at her now, and her gaze came up and met his, their eyes held, and they both knew the secret the other was trying to hide. He saw tears in her eyes and felt them form in his own, tears of self-pity for all the years spent apart, for the life they might have had together.

Her hand touched his, her cool fingers intertwined with his own. There were no words. They only sat and watched one another, as if trying to drink in the sight, quench the thirst of a quarter century, attempt to fill that emotional reservoir they both knew was bottomless, infinite, in preparation for an uncertain future.

"Oh, Ann," he whispered, his throat thick with grief and joy. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Sorry for what had been, he wondered, or sorry for what was yet to come?

"No," she said, looking away at last, brushing away the tears with the hand that was not holding his. "I'm the one who's sorry. Sorry for what happened, sorry I came back to see you…”

"No. Don't be sorry for that, don't ever be. I'm glad you came."

"I shouldn't have. I shouldn't take the job, I should just go home and forget all about this, about you…”

" No." His hand tightened on hers. "I don't want you to do that. Please stay." She shook her head as though it weighed a ton. "You're married. I don't want to… to be the cause of anything."

"You won't," he said, thinking that it was a lie, saying it nonetheless, thinking that he would have said anything to be with her longer. And then he thought that maybe what he said was true, but that he didn't want it to be.

At last she took her hand away, and his own hand had never felt so empty. "I don't know why," she said with a crooked smile, "why you have stayed in my mind all these years."

Dennis felt her smile mirrored on his own face. "Maybe it's because we loved each other, but we were never lovers. That's… a reflection, not a proposition."

"And taken as such." She sighed, sat back in her chair, and took a sip of wine. "You may be right, though. It was… relatively chaste. So all these years I suppose I've thought about what it would have been like." Now the smile held true humor. "And probably the fantasy is better than the reality."

"It generally is," Dennis said. "But there are exceptions to that rule." Ann's face became sad again. "We'll never know, will we?"

"No," Dennis said. "I guess we won't."

They sat there silently until Ann spoke again. "What if I asked you?" she said. "I'm not, but what if I did? What if I asked you to take me back with you tonight? What would you say?"

I've been an actor too long, Dennis thought, and acted again. "I'd say no. For both of us."

"And for your wife."

"And for my wife, yes." Then he added, as though it needed to be said. "I love her, Ann."

He walked her to her car. They did not hold hands, nor did they embrace when she got in. "I start Thursday," she said.

"Good," he said. "Good. Have Terri come with you and meet Marvella, yes?"

"All right." He closed the door for her, but she opened the window and spoke to him through it. "Dennis, if this doesn't work, don't blame me if I quit. Right now I just want to see you, even if I can't

… be with you. Maybe it'll pass. I hope it will."

"I know. I know how you feel. I feel the same way."

She smiled. "This has got doom written all over it, hasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Are we stupid?"

"Maybe. But we don't have to be." And he thought yes, yes, we are stupid. And we are helpless as well. But he only said, "Goodnight, Ann."

He turned then and walked down the street, not looking back, fearful that if he did he would go back to her, and though his heart wanted him to, his mind did not. He reminded himself that he loved his wife, he loved Robin, and he would not, could not be unfaithful to her. He had played that game too many times before with other women he had pretended to love. He would not do it to Robin, not to Robin. He owed her more than that.

When he returned to his suite, it seemed more empty than ever. He wished that Robin were there, and, out of loneliness and the desire to hear her voice, called her at the apartment they kept in New York. She sounded the same as ever, and told him that one show in particular stood out among the several finalists she had reviewed, and that she would be returning on Friday with the script and a tape of the music. He told her that he missed her and loved her, and she sounded, he thought, surprised to hear it.

She also sounded, he was dismayed to learn, ever so slightly like a stranger.

~* ~

What if he had given a different answer, Ann wondered as she drove home. What if he had said yes, I'd take you back with me, and I'd make love to you for the first time, and it would be the first time for the both of us for the rest of our lives, and we would spend the rest of our lives together, no one else, the way it should have been so many years ago.

What would I have done? Would I have gone with him if he had asked me to? God, I don't know. I would have wanted to, but would I have gone?

And as she drove through the night, the headlights of cars cutting across her vision, she thought of what it would be like to go to bed with Dennis, and as the lights streaked by, she thought of the last time she had gone to bed with Eddie, and in her mind Dennis's face became her husband's, and the dead weight of her husband became Dennis, and by the time she turned into the long driveway that led back to her home, she wondered for the hundredth time if she could sleep with any man again, but thought that if one existed who could make her forget, it would be Dennis. How sad, she thought, when Dennis was what she needed most to forget.

Terri was sitting in the den watching a Tracy-Hepburn movie on the large screen television when Ann walked in. The girl glanced away from the screen just long enough for her to take in her mother's appearance, then looked back at the four foot tall Tracy giving a towel-clad Hepburn a rubdown. "Well," she said dryly, "and where have we been in our sexiest dress?"

"It's not sexy," Ann said.

"Look in the mirror and tell me that, O mother of mine. Your boobs are displayed to their best advantage."

"What there is of them." Ann walked to the sofa where Terri was reclining and sat on the arm. "How would you like to work for a living, daughter dear?”

“Doing what?" Terri asked disinterestedly.

"Being an assistant to Marvella Johnson."

For the first time since Eddie's death, Ann saw the girl's stoic sarcasm replaced by youthful excitement, and felt a thrill run through her that she was actually doing something that made her daughter happy. "Marvella Johnson? Are you kidding me?"

"Dead serious. I followed your advice and went job hunting myself today. At the Venetian Theatre."

Terri's face grew solemn once more. "So that's it. The old boyfriend." She made a strange noise, half-snort, half-laugh. "I'm surprised you came home at all tonight. Or was Mrs. Hamilton there to put a damper on things?" Ann stood up, walked to the television, and turned off the power. "Hey, I was watching that," Terri said.

"Well, you're going to watch me now – or at least listen to me. Dennis Hamilton was a friend of mine, yes, a long time ago, but he's married now, and that's all we are – friends. I've never slept with the man and I don't intend to. Now that's none of your damned business, but you seem to think it is, so that's why I'm telling you, to set the record straight."

She came back, sat on the arm again, looked down at her daughter. "Dennis is a good man, and I'm going to be working at his theatre on his project. When I told him about you, he said that Marvella Johnson needs an assistant and told me to invite you to apply for the position. I've done that. I'm going in to work on Thursday, and if you want to come along, fine. If you don't, that's fine too. Frankly, I'm getting to the point where I don't give much of a damn what you do. Goodnight." And she left the den without another word.

Left alone, Terri looked at the doorway through which her mother had passed, then at the blank screen of the huge TV. In a way that she could barely admit to herself, she felt jealous of her mother, for both the things she had and the things she had not had.

Men were not part of the equation. Terri had had men, and in abundance. In college, sex had come easily and, for the most part, happily to her. It was also carefree, for she carried her own condoms, and would not consider sex without them. Her partners were willing to trade off increased sensitivity for ease of access, so Terri was seldom left wanting sexual companionship.

What she was left wanting, however, was romance, something with which she believed her mother had lived all her life. Ann had told her long before about having known and dated Dennis Hamilton, although she had never given her any details. Around this skeletal framework Terri had constructed a legend. She had seen the film version of A Private Empire, and had even seen Dennis in the New York revival back in 1982. She remembered her father telling her mother that they should go backstage, that Dennis would surely remember her, but Ann refused. At the time, Terri thought it was because Ann had made the whole story up, but later realized that seeing the two men she loved together would have been too difficult.

So, through the years, Terri thought about her mother and Dennis Hamilton, about their young love that, on her mother's part at least, she knew had lasted. And as that love became less of an unattainable dream and more of an attainable ideal, so Terri's anger and jealousy grew toward her mother. Now, with the knowledge that they had seen each other again, she was torn between the joy she knew she should feel for her mother, and the jealousy that was the reality. For Ann to have two romances in her life, while Terri had never come close to even one, seemed selfish in the extreme, and Terri, despite Ann's best efforts, had been raised by a spoiling and doting father to be as selfish as possible.

What Ann had, Terri wanted, and, if it could be gotten, she would get it. When Thursday came, she would go with her mother, she would meet Marvella Johnson, and maybe, just maybe, she would meet Dennis Hamilton too.

Terri got up from the couch, went over to the wall full of videotapes, and took A Private Empire from its storage box. Putting on the earphones so her mother would not hear, she began to watch the film.

Dennis Hamilton really had been a beautiful young man, she thought, and wondered what changes the intervening years had made. She wondered if he was still handsome, then looked more closely at the perfect face of the bearded young man that filled the screen, and felt sure that he was.

She would like working for Marvella Johnson, she thought. Yes, she would like everything about the Venetian Theatre.

Everything.

Scene 8

Donna Franklin liked everything about the Venetian Theatre too. Everything except Abe Kipp and going to the fourth and fifth floors by herself. She didn't know how Marvella was able to live there alone. She did have Whitney, but in a few weeks, perhaps, the girl would be gone, and Marvella would have that suite and those long halls all to herself – and to Abe Kipp's ghosts.

Not that that would bother Marvella. Though at times she played the comic darkie, it was only in a way that poked fun at the old, tired, white man's stereotype, never at herself or her race. In truth, she was the least superstitious person Donna had ever met. Her imagination was bounded by fabric and sketches, and had no room for ghosts.

Donna didn't believe in ghosts either, but there was something about the upper floors, the fifth floor in particular, that poured tension into her like a stream of ice, and caused the pressure in her bladder that had always been the physical manifestation of Donna's anxieties. She thought the feeling was due to knowing that the place had once been a hospital, where people had suffered and died in pain.

Shaking the thought from her mind, she continued down the hall. After all, she was on the fourth floor now, a floor that was already occupied by Marvella and Whitney, and would soon be the temporary homes of others as well. The presence of people here would surely banish whatever theatrical or medical spirits still remained.

She paused where the hall turned, and examined the two doors at right angles to each other. One would be Dex Colangelo's suite, the other Quentin Margolis's, when the two men came down to Kirkland for the rehearsals of whatever show was chosen. Today Donna was to examine the rooms and determine which should be bedrooms, living rooms, kitchenettes and the like. They had been only dorm rooms for the orphan school years before, as had the suites on the third floor. But walls had been battered down so that the dozens of tiny, individual rooms (little better than cells, Donna thought) had become the spacious and elegant suites in which they all now lived. She unlocked the door on the left, turned on her flashlight, and entered.

The smell of old plaster and damp wallpaper hung heavy in the air, although in the flashlight's gleam the place looked clean enough, the rubble of the pulled-down walls removed, the dust swept away. To Donna's left was a windowless room that she thought could serve as a kitchen/dinette. She turned to the right and walked down a narrow hall, from the end of which daylight was coming, to find two more rooms, the first with windows at the far end only, which would make a decent bedroom, and the second with windows on two walls, which would be perfect, she thought, for Dex's living room, since there was plenty of space for a piano. The bath could go wherever the existing plumbing system allowed. Donna jotted down a rough layout on her clipboard, then capped her fountain pen and turned to walk out.

She had not taken a step before she knew that someone was in the suite with her. The door, which she could see from where she stood, was closed, and she was sure she had left it open so that the light from the hall would help illuminate the interior. Also, she thought she detected the steady sound of someone breathing, normally the quietest of sounds, but terribly loud now in the deathlike stillness of the dark rooms. Whoever it was, she thought, didn't care if she knew he was there or not, and she wasn't sure if that made her feel more or less comfortable.

Donna stood there for what seemed like many minutes, her flashlight dark. Then she decided that this standoff, if standoff it was, had to end, and she called out, with more courage than she felt, "Hey, who's there?" It could, after all, be Harry Ruhl, who would probably be more scared than she was.

After a moment's silence, the answer came. "Me." And Donna breathed a sigh of relief, recognizing the deep, warm voice of Dennis Hamilton.

" Jesus, Dennis," she said, as she flicked on her flashlight, "you nearly scared the hell out of -" But her words choked as the light shone on his face.

It was Dennis, but it was a far different Dennis than the one she expected to see. There was nothing soft and vulnerable about this face that stared at her out of the darkness, nothing yielding about those eyes that caught the flashlight's glare and turned it to red. The eyes were those of a cat, the face that of a wolf, and Donna found she could not speak. Never before had she felt so hunted, as though she were nothing but prey for the man who stood before her.

It took her a moment to realize what he was wearing, and had it not been for the shining gold buttons she might not have noticed. It was his uniform coat, the uniform coat that he had worn in innumerable performances as the Emperor Frederick.

~* ~

(THE EMPEROR wears not only the coat, but the jodhpurs and boots as well. The saber hangs by his side.)

THE EMPEROR

Did you find the bedroom?

DONN

(Slowly) Yes… the second room.

THE EMPEROR

Let's look. Let's look… together (He begins to move toward her DONNA turns her back on him, as if with great courage, and leads him into the room. Sunlight is shining through the dusty windows.) Dexter will like this as a bedroom.

DONNA

(Self-consciously) You're in costume.

THE EMPEROR

I am.

DONNA

But why? Why the costume… Dennis?

THE EMPEROR

Because we should not forget to whom we owe all this. This beautiful building, this success, this… soon-to-be bedroom. (He walks about, hands clasped behind his back.) And what things might be done here? Do you think that Dexter will form a liaison with any of the chorus members? He has before, you know. (He fixes her with a challenging glare.) Did you know that?

DONNA

(Nods) Yes.

THE EMPEROR

Dexter is quite an accomplished lover. Perhaps it is his Italian heritage. (He gives her a look that would pin a butterfly to a board .) Have you ever had an Italian lover, Donna?

DONNA

I… I don't… no. No, I haven't.

THE EMPEROR

A pity. Life should be filled with as many experiences as possible. And such an attractive woman as yourself… no, no protestations, please. You know it's true, even though you attempt to disguise it under those owlish glasses and that severe hair style. They merely beg a man to remove them and unpin the hair, and give that classic line, "Why, Miss Franklin, you're beautiful." Please don't tell me that you've never imagined that weary scenario, or that it's never happened to you, for I feel sure it has.

DONNA

Dennis -

THE EMPEROR

(He raises a hand, interrupting her.) Spare me, Donna. I can tell when I'm talking to a woman who is experienced. I have empathy for that sort of soul to whom the flesh means much. (He looks away from her and murmurs, lost in thought.) The flesh…

(Seeing that THE EMPEROR's attention has shifted away from her, DONNA starts to edge past him toward the door, but he shoots out a hand in front of her, though he does not touch her.)

THE EMPEROR

When two such souls join – two souls with the proper regard for the flesh – the outcome would be astonishing. (He lowers his hand and smiles.) And I think that you and my… colleague of long standing have long experienced such a bonding. (He steps aside, bows deeply, and makes a low, sweeping gesture toward the hallway.) Pray, proceed. Remember me. And my veiled offer. For the time is coming when the flesh will live. And command.

~* ~

The same fear that had held Donna now allowed her to tear her fascinated gaze away and move past him, walking briskly, then running, to the freedom of the hall. She heard the door close behind her, but she did not turn to see if he was there watching her, or had remained within, in the shadows. All she could think about was escaping. There was something about him that had soured her soul. His presence (his madness? – What was the costume for?) made her feel all the world was vile. It was not so much what he said as what she had heard actors call subtext – what lay beneath his words was like the pale, flat worms that crawl under rocks after rain.

And those words had come out of him on breath that smelled queer and strange and metallic, nothing as pedestrian as cigarette smoke or as pungent as garlic, but a curious and unique odor, one she had never before noticed from Dennis or any other human being. Whatever it was, it had terrified her almost as much as his bizarre words.

Donna's heart did not slow until she was back in the office suite she shared with John Steinberg, who was standing next to her desk looking through the day's mail. A pile of empty envelopes lay on her desk top, and Steinberg was smiling as he riffled the contents at her. "More checks," he said. "More good people wanting to invest in the project. Cissy Morrison sent ten thousand." Steinberg tossed down the pile of checks and sighed. "I'd feel happier, however, if I didn't think they were coming more in Tommy's memory than as real investments. I know that's what was in Cissy's mind at least."

Donna felt secure again. She was back with John now, talking about money, as usual. All was nearly right with the world. "How do you know that's what Cissy had in mind?" she asked.

"Because she told me in her goddamned letter. Listen." He picked up a sumptuous piece of cream-colored stationery from the desk and read, "'Not for your sake, you pompous windbag, but in memory of Tommy. And I'd better make a fucking profit too.'" Steinberg shook his head. "Cissy has such a way with words. So. You were up in the highest reaches of the keep?"

"Yes. I… I ran into Dennis."

"Dennis? Surveying his domain?"

"I don't know, John. He seemed awfully strange. He was… he was wearing his costume."

John eyed her over the top of his bifocals. "What costume?"

"His emperor costume. The whole regalia. And he acted like, well, he wasn't like himself at all. He acted more like the Emperor, like he was playing a role when he spoke to me. It was odd. I was actually a little scared."

Steinberg's face sobered. "Hmm. Well, he has been acting strangely. Tommy's death hit him hard. Hell, it did all of us. I'm sure he'll get over it."

"But… the costume?"

Steinberg heaved a sigh and sat on the edge of the desk. "Donna, Dennis has been the Emperor for many years. Even though he wasn't sorry to stop playing the role, it was a major part of his life. It's rather odd that he should put on the costume once again and roam the corridors above where he'd think no one would see him, but it's not inexplicable. It's like a little boy playing dress-up, for actors can be, as you well know, little more than children at times. When you discovered him, he was embarrassed, so he fell into character. And that," he finished, "is my pseudo-Freudian analysis. I shouldn't worry about it if I were you. Dennis will come around."

~* ~

"John's wrong. I didn't come across him," Donna said to Sid. "He came into the suite. Sid, he knew I was there. If he didn't want me to see him, he could have just walked away down the hall."

Sid rolled over onto his back, rested a hand on Donna's bare thigh, and looked up at the bedroom ceiling. "It doesn't sound like Dennis. He never propositioned you before, did he?"

"Never. He's always been a gentleman around me. And he knows about us…" She trailed off, turning toward him and throwing an arm over his chest.

"Mmm-hmm. He's known for years about our…” He kissed her cheek. “… relationship. I can't believe he'd try to make a move on you."

"I can't either, but he did. I didn't imagine it."

"I know. You're a very rock-solid lady." He chuckled. "That's why I keep returning to your open arms."

Sid Harper and Donna Franklin had been making love to each other for ten years. It was a relationship of convenience in which expediency of passion was the key. They had had few relationships with other people during the time they had been together, and had never spoken of the four-letter word, love.

"I just don't know," Sid mused, "what's gotten into Dennis lately. He's not his old self, that's for sure."

"There was something else," Donna said, and he felt her stiffen beside him. "I just remembered. He didn't blink. I don't think I saw him blink one time, even when I shone my flashlight right in his face

…”